Aw, Hell
by Nemo the Everbeing
Summary: McCoy's first day on the Enterprise doesn't go quite as well as he'd hoped SpockMcCoy pre-slash


Title: Aw, Hell

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Summary: In answer to the Ninth Wave Challenge: write a story relating to Spock and McCoy's first meeting. McCoy's first day on the Enterprise doesn't go nearly as well as he'd hoped.

Rating: PG-13 for some pre-slashy thoughts

Disclaimer: Don't own them.

His first day on the Enterprise started innocently enough. Then again, they usually did. He had come aboard, dropped his possessions off at his cabin, and then made a beeline for sickbay.

And when he got there, he felt like he was home. Not only was it well-equipped (best equipped medical facility he'd ever seen, if he was honest), but the staff was friendly, and, most importantly, it was his Sickbay. Climbing the damn chain of command was apparently good for something.

He had wanted to go over the medical histories of the crew, to see if there were any he should keep an eye on, of course, but things had a way of turning out differently than he'd expected.

Starting with the Tamorian Flu.

Seemed to Leonard McCoy that this ship had gone to hell in a hand basket without a CMO around to keep an eye on things. How else would an entire crew start showing symptoms of an epidemic days in the making?

Jim Kirk had been apologetic about the suddenness with which the ship's woes knocked on McCoy's door, but his old friend had also been emphatic: the entire crew needed to be checked and inoculated before anything went any further. Apparently he was sore about the two incidents of projectile vomiting on his bridge.

McCoy pinched the his nose. At least, he thought, he was getting a chance to meet the crew.

The hours dragged on as McCoy started with yeomen and worked his way up. A lot of friendly faces passed his way, most of which, he knew, he wouldn't remember the next day. Still, he made a concerted effort to at least try to get some of the names.

Not that there weren't certain people of interest.

McCoy had, thus far, found himself quite fond of his head nurse, Christine Chapel. Severe, retiring lady, she had a sort of down-to-earth quality that McCoy liked, especially if she was going to be the one handing him tools at a critical moment. More than that, though, she seemed to have had troubles. The slight lines on her face and the distance in her eyes told him as much.

It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one who joined Starfleet as a means of escape.

Then, there was the Chief Engineer. Absolutely wonderful fellow. The kind of man who could talk you into the ground, but he could also drink you into the ground, and you had to give him props for that. Especially McCoy, who definitely enjoyed a glass of good bourbon, appreciated that aspect of Montgomery Scott.

He glanced at his list. He was down to the most senior of officers: the bridge crew. McCoy shrugged. Never one to stand on ceremony, he supposed that the best thing to do was walk right up to the bridge and collect them. After years of dealing with command officers, he knew that it was probably the only way to get them to sickbay. Damn fools were absolutely in love with those stations of their's.

Of course, first, he'd actually have to be able to get his legs to stand up again. McCoy rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on his desk, ready to heave himself up.

"What a day," he groaned. "Nurse Chapel," he murmured, hearing her stop outside the door, "go on, get something to eat. You've earned it."

"It's Christine, Doctor," she stated, and he smiled at the fact that, unlike the droves of flighty ensigns he'd checked and sent on their way, she wasn't in the least bit flirting with him when she told him that. Just establishing a good working relationship. Oh, yes, things were going to work between them just fine. "Are you sure you can handle the rest by yourself?" she asked.

He looked up, smiling at her. "It's Leonard, and yeah, I'm sure."

"You should eat something, too."

McCoy shrugged. "I've got some more work to do. I'll get some food after." He waved a hand. "You go on."

She did.

And once she was gone, McCoy's stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him that she was right and he had yet to eat that day. He frowned at it disapprovingly, silently commanding it to cut it out. After all, it wasn't like he could forego examining the most important people on the whole damn ship.

Plus, McCoy wanted to run a few more tests on this Tamorian Flu. It was showing some anomalous symptoms that made him suspicious. It would do no good if he inoculated the entire crew against the Tamorian Flu, and it turned out to be another virus altogether. Some CMO he'd seem.

He knew that shouldn't be a concern at the moment, but, truth be told, he was a little intimidated by being the CMO of Starfleet's flagship. That was a lot to live up to, and if he wasn't careful, he was afraid that people would start thinking that he got the job simply because he was an old friend of the Captain.

That idea made whatever was left in his stomach churn, which, in turn, caused it to gurgle again.

McCoy sighed in frustration.

At least the tests he had conducted thus far on the virus were corroborating his hunch. The standard strain of Tamorian Flu didn't tend to spread as quickly as it had here, and the incubation period was often far longer in the standard virus. Something was definitely wrong with this bug, and if he wasn't careful, it would get out of control.

Maybe it was something on the sub-atomic level . . .

It was then that Leonard McCoy heard the first, distinctive thud outside the sickbay doors. He raised his head, wondering if someone had dropped something.

That noise, however, was quickly followed by another.

And another.

Getting up, curiosity getting the better of him, McCoy walked out into the hall, and was immediately greeted by a horrifying sight: people were simply dropping in their tracks.

One by one, the people all around him simply collapsed. Others ran to assist, but they, too, fell only seconds later.

McCoy hurried to the nearest body, which happened to be Ensign Withers of security, a young man who McCoy remembered from his checkup an hour earlier. The boy had told McCoy he liked to play bridge in his spare time. At the time, McCoy had grinned at the rather odd hobby for a security man.

McCoy's medical tricorder was running over the bridge-playing ensign before he even thought about doing it. He intently stared at the results, only to feel his heart lurch in his chest.

It was the so-called 'Tamorian Flu', which he had inoculated Withers against little over an hour ago.

The damn strain was mutating right in front of his eyes.

McCoy shook his head. He had inoculated and cured the entire crew. This sort of extreme reaction shouldn't be remotely possible, and yet, simultaneously, every supposedly defeated virus changed itself subtly and attacked.

McCoy's mind began to whirl at the implications such a coordinated attack could imply: some outside force could have instigated this blitz to take out the entire crew of the Enterprise without damaging the ship, or even raising an alarm. Somehow, McCoy had remained unaffected. Perhaps it was because he'd only come on board so recently.

The other possibility, he thought, was that this was naturally occurring, which meant that this phage was not only a very subtle chameleon, but had adapted to take out an entire population in one go. It was the perfect space faring virus.

And as he regarded the limp bodies in the hallway, McCoy suddenly wished he weren't the CMO. This was too damn big for him. Over four hundred souls on this ship, and all of them counting on him. All falling into inexplicable comas with only Leonard McCoy standing between them and death.

As he stood, almost shaking, he couldn't help but gasp out, "I'm a doctor, not a messiah!" And, he added silently, just a country doctor at that. This was some sort of alien virus, and he was up a creek without a paddle.

McCoy shook himself angrily. He was the CMO of this ship, and dammit, Starfleet had to have put him there for a reason. He might just be a doctor, but he was a damn fine doctor at that. If this was some alien virus, he'd have to cure it. If it was an attack, he'd have to foil it. If he really was the only thing standing between his crew and death, then he better plant his feet and get ready for one hell of a fight.

And, like most fights, this one needed to start where things were most vital: the bridge. He needed to get to Jim Kirk and he needed to get to him now. Up he stood and rushed to the turbolift, which contained several unconscious crew members of its own.

It felt like an eternity to get to the bridge, and even longer for the damn doors to open once he was there.

But once they opened, he honestly wished that they hadn't.

McCoy didn't have time to appreciate his first visit to that hallowed place. He didn't even see the spectacle most civilians dreamed about. All he could see was the sea of unfamiliar people, slumped over their consoles. Kirk himself had fallen out of his chair and now lay in a graceless jumble on the floor.

McCoy was on the move, going from body to body. A young Asian man at the helm seemed to have landed badly, so McCoy stopped to straighten him out a bit. Another young man at navigation was currently drooling on his console. Unsure if such an activity could harm the equipment, McCoy shifted him to the floor and used his sleeve to wipe up the mess.

Then, staring at the readouts, McCoy thought back to half-remembered emergency simulations at the Academy. Hell, he'd thought that the possibilities of him actually having to work this ship were so slim as to be laughable.

It didn't seem so funny now that it was happening.

McCoy ran through the emergency procedures in his head. If he remembered correctly, which was currently debatable, then the first thing he needed to do was make sure they weren't about to run the ship into anything. He peered at the readings on the navigation console.

And realized he didn't have the slightest idea what any of them meant.

He crossed over to the Asian officer's chair, as well, only to find the same problem there.

"Dammit," he growled, "I don't have the first clue how to—"

And suddenly, a hand grabbed Leonard McCoy from behind, spinning him around with force that could not possibly be human. McCoy lost his footing and fell to the ground, yelping and scrabbling frantically at his belt for anything that could be used as a weapon.

Coming up with nothing but an empty hypo (he decided that if he couldn't inject his attacker, he could at least hit him with the damn thing), McCoy looked up.

And his breath got lost somewhere between his lungs and his mouth.

He had never seen an alien before.

The man was close enough to human to be very disconcerting. In fact, McCoy surmised that if he were to squint very hard, it would be difficult to tell the difference. It was there, though. The undertones of this man's flesh weren't rosy, but the green of copper-based blood. The ears, instead of round, swept up to graceful points, much as the eyebrows also slanted up instead of down at their ends. McCoy's first thought was that Starfleet had never told him how incredibly attractive Vulcans were.

For this man was, indeed, a Vulcan. Even having never seen one in the flesh, McCoy would stake his license on it. But more than that, this was a Vulcan in a Starfleet uniform. Why the hell had no one told McCoy that there was a Vulcan on board? Wasn't that something of which the CMO should be informed?

Tone as glacial as his expression, the as-yet unnamed Vulcan lifted a phaser and leveled it at him, demanding, "Identify yourself."

Starfleet had also neglected to mention to him just how intimidating Vulcans could be.

"I . . . I'm . . . Leonard. . ." Remembering himself, McCoy straightened as much as he could while sprawled on the floor and snapped out, "Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer."

It might have been his imagination, but for a second he could have sworn that the Vulcan looked incredulous. However, McCoy took it as a good sign when the phaser was lowered. "Our last Chief Medical Officer was a full commander," the Vulcan sniffed.

McCoy gaped at the man for a second. They were in the middle of a crisis, and he had the temerity to . . . attractive or no, this Vulcan just threw down the gauntlet and insulted the wrong man. "Hate to point it out, Sir," McCoy drawled, "but your last CMO was also pushing ninety. I'd hope to hell that I'm a full commander by that time, too."

Once again, the Vulcan gave his prone form that almost-disdainful glance. "That remains to be seen," he said.

McCoy stood up. "And who the hell are you to be criticizing me?" he demanded.

"Commander Spock, First Officer."

"Interesting color for a first officer to wear," McCoy stated, suspicion roused. Was the Vulcan lying to him? Could Vulcans lie?

The Vulcan stiffened, and McCoy guessed that he had managed to insult the man. "I am also the science officer."

McCoy would have to ask how that happened after the crisis was past. He, at least, had his priorities straight. "Well, Mister First Science Officer, or whatever the hell you actually are," all right, his priorities did allow for a little ribbing, "would you kindly do your job and check on the ship instead of standing here insulting me?"

Still looking at him like he was some sort of intruder, the Vulcan called Spock (did the man even have a last name?) moved around McCoy to inspect the consoles. Finally, he keyed in a few commands.

"What was that?" McCoy asked.

"A distress signal," Spock responded. "I find myself wondering why you hadn't already sent one."

"Believe me, if I knew how, I would have."

"Our last doctor was also competent enough to at least perform basic bridge duties."

McCoy nearly growled, "And I remind you again of his age . . ."

"I believe it is actually expected of Starfleet cadets to know such a thing. One assumes that, being a graduate of Starfleet Medical, you received similar training."

"Well, I was lousy at those courses!" McCoy exploded. "I can't imagine there wasn't at least one course you struggled with at the Academy. Say, interspecies relations."

The snobbish Vulcan sniffed. "I received top marks on my final exam, though I fail to see why my academic achievements should concern you."

"If you got top marks, then you have no excuse for being such a colossal pain in my ass!"

"Perhaps it is because I highly doubt you are who you claim to be. I saw no transfer papers in our daily report."

If McCoy could feel any more shock than he had been, he was quite sure he would have. As it was, with his shock levels all but maxed out, all he could manage was mute fury. What a first day! He finally found someone who seemed momentarily fascinating, only to discover that he had a stick up his ass the size and shape of the Eagle Nebula.

McCoy didn't know what galled him more: the fact that this man was challenging his very being as a Starfleet officer, or that he still found Spock damned attractive in spite of it.

Forcing thoughts like that out of his head, McCoy snapped, "Why you son of a—"

"And such insubordinate behavior is giving your case no support."

"Listen," McCoy spat, "I am Chief Medical Officer. That means that, if the situation warrants it, I'm not only your superior officer, but Jim's, too. Or did you forget your chain of command, Mister Spock?"

That shot told, and also seemed to help his so-called 'case'. The Vulcan's expression got even icier as he stated, "Then I shall endeavor to make sure the situation never warrants it."

"Don't you dare—"

Suddenly, the entire ship shuddered, sending both of them crashing into one another. McCoy felt arms wrap instinctually around him as they tumbled to the ground, and found himself wondering at the heat of the Vulcan's grasp. Was the man cold on this ship? Did he get special dispensation from the captain to up the temperature in his quarters? What sort of effect would that difference have on—?

He needed to separate himself from this damn Vulcan before the man read his thoughts and had even more ammunition to fire at McCoy.

Spock apparently had the same idea, because they both rolled away from one another simultaneously, and McCoy pushed himself to his hands and knees. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "Did you stop the ship?"

"That, doctor, felt like an asteroid collision. It is something over which I have little control."

"Well you better get some damn control before we're all blown to Kingdom Come."

Spock shot him a look of profound distaste. "Would you please refrain from using obscure colloquialisms, Doctor? I find it most difficult."

McCoy grinned. "You're on a ship full of humans, Sir. It's therefore my duty as CMO to make sure that you can work well with your fellow crew members, keep morale up. Consider my 'obscure colloquialisms' to be my very own way of preventing culture shock," McCoy smiled sweetly, "Sir."

For a second, it almost looked like the Vulcan was going to be angry. Then, his face grew stony and he demanded, "Are you going to behave so adversarially toward me for the rest of our mission?"

"Now, Mister Spock, that all depends on you. If you don't start fights, I certainly won't finish them."

"Your views require challenging."

"Then, challenge away. Just know that, unlike most people who see the Vulcan ears and roll over, I'm not going to give in. If you enter into a debate with me, expect to be met and matched."

Spock almost snorted. "Met, I would easily believe. Matched, however . . ."

"Try me."

When Spock briefly glanced over his shoulder at the human doctor, his eyes were almost glittering with anticipation, and McCoy realized that the man was actually enjoying this. He couldn't help but wonder how few people had the gumption to stand up to Spock and fight back. "I certainly shall," the Vulcan informed him.

Suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable as he realized that this argument was edging into borderline flirtation, McCoy crossed his arms over his chest and said gruffly, "Right, then. Asteroids. Are we in some sort of field?"

"Most likely we have entered the asteroid belt in the solar system we are currently surveying."

McCoy followed Spock to the helm, where the Vulcan sat, eyes flicking over the readouts. "Then let's get the hell out of it," he encouraged.

Spock began to manipulate the controls. "That, Doctor, is precisely what I am attempting to do."

McCoy shut his mouth and watched.

Minutes passed, and McCoy felt the tension build. His mind was wandering to places it oughtn't. Places, he was sure, the Vulcan would find most unwelcome, such as his current mute admiration of the man's rather remarkable ears. They reminded McCoy of stories he'd read as a child: Tolkien and Beagle stowed quietly under his schoolbooks where his mother couldn't find them. This man seemed to be fantasy personified.

Speaking of fantasy . . .

Oh, McCoy, he thought, that's not a place your mind should be going. Not with this man and certainly not with the crew all in comas on your first day.

That thought galvanized him, and McCoy began to stride purposefully around the bridge, taking detailed scans and tissue samples from the unconscious crew members. A flu which induced coma either meant that the virus was inflicting extreme damage to the body, which, according to his readings, didn't seem to be the case, or it was directly affecting the brain.

He ran his medical tricorder around Jim's head, frowning. It was there, all right. Some sort of cross-breed between meningitis and Tamorian flu? No, that was far too unlikely. So, how the hell was it affecting the brain?

"Dammit," he growled.

"Problem, Doctor?" Spock asked, rising and moving to navigation.

"You could say that," McCoy grunted, and went back to staring hard at the data, as if enough angry scrutiny would force the cause of these comas to manifest itself.

The data remained the same.

"We are clear of the asteroid belt," Spock stated, "and are now in orbit around the sixth planet."

"Why the sixth?"

"It was closest. I assumed that you would require my assistance to find a cure for this disease."

"Are you questioning my medical abilities, Sir?"

"Being that I currently have no evidence to support the idea that you have any 'medical abilities' whatsoever, I believe that to be the most logical course of action."

"Oh, I'm sorry," McCoy drawled, "did they make you a medical officer, too? Should I be calling you Commander, Science Officer, First Officer, or M. D.? I'm just an old country doctor, and all your titles are gettin' me a mite confused."

Spock glared at him and all but snatched the medical tricorder from his hands, ignoring the human's squawk of protest. McCoy glared at him, but to no avail. The Vulcan was completely focused on his readings. "Fascinating," he finally commented.

That was what he had to say about the virus bringing down their entire crew?! Angrily, McCoy snapped, "Ain't it just? Now, are you going to stand there ooing and ahing over my data, or do you plan to help me do something about it?"

Spock arched both eyebrows at him. "Your reaction is completely illogical, doctor. I was merely commenting on the interesting characteristics of this particular virus, most notably its ability to disguise itself as other, less damaging entities of similar genetic makeup. It functions much as the chameleon of your own earth—"

"Can we skip through the natural history lesson and get back to saving the day?"

"It was an attempt to turn you onto a new perspective on the problem."

"Well, turn me on after we've saved the crew."

All right, that was possibly not the best choice of words he could have made.

Apparently Spock agreed with that assessment, because his eyes rocketed upward.

As McCoy turned beet red in embarrassment, he tried to explain, "That didn't come out the way I meant it."

"That much I had gathered." Spock turned and moved for the turbolift. "I suggest, doctor, that we continue this conversation in Sickbay."

McCoy moved after him, muttering under his breath, "Hell."

Seemed to him that he hit bottom and just kept on digging.

The ride to Sickbay was one long awkward silence. Or, at least it was awkward for McCoy. The Vulcan still seemed unfazed by their continued not-quite-flirtation, and it was confusing McCoy horribly. Most of the time, if this sort of thing happened to him (which it usually didn't), both parties were equally shocked and could laugh it off, but with Spock so damn unresponsive McCoy found himself completely lost as to how to handle the situation. It was just confounding.

They jostled to a halt and McCoy had never been more thrilled to hear the distinctive whoosh of doors in his entire life. He moved into the hallway a little too quickly and to Sickbay with much more than his common stroll. He needed to put some distance between himself and Spock if he even hoped to concentrate on the present problem.

Spock immediately proceeded to a computer terminal, while McCoy moved off toward the lab with his tissue samples.

The computer's analysis was slow going, as expected, and McCoy tried to busy himself by taking his own readings. Perhaps if he could pinpoint exactly what was different about him that had allowed for his continued consciousness, he could figure out an antidote.

As he compared his and Jim's readings on his tricorder, he frowned. There had to be something here, but damned if he knew—

Spock straightened.

"Spock?" McCoy called out, "you find something?"

"Indeed, Doctor. I ran your identity through the computer, and have determined that you are who you say you are."

McCoy stared at the Vulcan in disbelief. "You didn't—what in the name of God made you doubt it?"

"The suspicious circumstances warranted an investigation of all possibilities, especially when evidence as to the cause of this virus did not point to a natural or unnatural source conclusively."

McCoy's ire, which had been at a quiet simmer for a good long while, finally boiled over in full. He was dimly aware that his gesticulating had become both larger and more emphatic as he all but shouted, "And so of course it's my fault! Why you green-blooded, pointy-eared robot, I've been working my tail off to help you find a cure, and all this while, you thought I was responsible! Believe me, if I had been, I would have made sure that I took you out first! It would have saved me a colossal headache!"

Furiously, he turned back to the computer and prayed for results. How he could have possibly thought this arrogant, self-assured Vulcan to be attractive was a goddamn mystery. Why, there wasn't one thing—

"I apologize for my suspicion, Doctor," Spock said in a tone that was somehow softer and more human than any he'd used thus far. "It seemed logical at the time to suspect you. However, I failed to take into account the level of stress you must currently be under. To inform you of my identity check on you was therefore tactless and counter-productive."

McCoy kept his back to the Vulcan for some seconds, not wanting him to see the rapid play of shock, amazement and then a slow and quiet smile moving across his face. It was better not to ruin the moment, or show just how pleased he really was.

All right, there were a few things about the Vulcan that were more than acceptable.

When he felt he had sufficient control of himself, McCoy turned and nodded tersely. "Apology accepted, Mister Spock." Feeling too open at the moment, and certain undeniable pulls between them far too close to the surface, McCoy added, "But if you do it again, I'll call you in for a complete physical every week for the next two months."

Spock's eyebrows kicked up. "I would consider that an extreme reaction."

"I'm in an extreme kind of mood."

Suddenly, the computer beeped at him, and McCoy felt more than heard Spock move up to peer at the screen over his shoulder.

"Well I'll be goddamned," McCoy breathed. "It was in the food." Then, he turned sharply toward Spock. "Where did you get it?"

"I believe," Spock said, "that we refueled last at Starbase 5. It is likely that we replentished our supplies of base nutrients there."

McCoy nodded, already allowing his mind to move on to the next obvious question. "I haven't eaten yet, but why hasn't it affected you?"

"One assumes that it is incompatible with my physiology," the Vulcan stated with infinite calm.

McCoy snorted. "Well, this one doesn't assume a damn thing. Hold still."

Spock almost frowned, but complied with McCoy curt order. The doctor felt better now. There were no delicate moments or worrisome interchanges. There was just him, a virus, and a patient he was trying to save. He was finally on his home turf.

His tricorder turned to Spock and readings began to come back. McCoy grimaced. He'd expected as much, but it didn't mean he liked the results. "It's there, all right," he murmured. "Just getting confused in the environment."

"Then we have time."

"Not damn much of it, if its rate of mutation is any indicator! This thing is going to adapt and its going to take you down fast and hard."

"We shall deal with that eventuality when and if it comes," Spock told McCoy. There was a distinctive edge to his voice.

The doctor wondered if this was a privacy issue. He stated, "We'll deal with it before then, thank you all the same. I can't lose you." Realizing how that had sounded, he amended, "The ship can't afford it."

Spock, after a second's hesitation, sat in the chair next to McCoy's. "I must point out, Doctor, that curing me will be impossible without a cure."

"That was some incredible logic, Spock. Did you think of that all by yourself?"

Spock lifted an eyebrow at the human. "I take it by your response that you do not have a cure."

"Dammit, Spock—"

"Nor, it seems, an idea for where to start looking."

McCoy slumped and dug the heels of his hands into his aching forehead. "You know, this really wasn't how I was planning on spending my first day here."

"Indeed?"

"I was hoping for a nice round of completely unnecessary physicals, and as I was letting the crew know just how amazingly healthy they were, I might actually have time to get to know them."

"You appear to be 'getting to know' me," Spock commented gently.

McCoy snorted. "Spock, the day I actually get to know you will be the day hell freezes over."

The Vulcan didn't seem to have a response to that, and so remained immobile and silent.

McCoy didn't even have the energy to consider the wording of his last statement. He'd pretty much resigned himself to constant Freudian slips while in this man's presence.

After a protracted silence, McCoy continued, "No, Spock, I have no idea how to cure this damned virus."

Silently, Spock peered at the results. At last, he asked, "So, you are resigned to let this phage run its course on the ship?"

Oh, that was too horrible to imagine. Just too damn—and Spock had actually assumed that he would . . .

McCoy's head snapped up and he growled, "I damn well am not! Move over and let me at that screen."

Spock lifted a single eyebrow but did as McCoy ordered, watching serenely as the doctor glared furiously at the monitor. There had to be a way to beat this thing. Every virus had a weakness, and he'd be jiggered if he didn't figure out the key to this one.

"Start with the basics," he muttered. "Affects?"

"Coma."

McCoy paused for the second it took to glare at Spock. "And why are they in comas?"

Spock watched him expectantly.

McCoy told him, "Nerve damage. This virus has properties in common with meningitis."

"So, perhaps a cure for meningitis—"

McCoy shook his head. "I thought about that, but this isn't meningitis, so the antibodies would be different."

Spock took a turn staring at the readings intently. "Could we synthesize antibodies?"

McCoy tapped a finger against his lips thoughtfully. "I could, but I'm worried about the rate of mutation. If we could slow that down, then, sure, my antibodies would work. If we can't, though, it'll just mutate and come back stronger than ever."

"What does the virus require to mutate, Doctor?"

McCoy shrugged. "Your usual: darkness, moisture, warmth . . ." he trailed off, the gears in his head suddenly chugging away madly. Eyes wide, he turned to his Vulcan companion, "Spock, if we could lower everyone's body temperature enough . . ." then, he growled. "Dammit, the two of us couldn't get around to everyone with the antibodies before they freeze to death!"

Spock seemed to almost be excited at that point, though, and asked sharply, "Could your antibodies be aerosolized?"

McCoy understood immediately. "We get them into the air and then get them into the ventilation system . . . Spock, this could work! If we can synthesize the antibodies small enough that they can permeate the skin while in the air . . ." he crowed, grasping the Vulcan's wrist impulsively.

Spock glanced down at his appendage, and McCoy immediately retracted his hand. "Sorry," he muttered.

"That's quite all right. I have become accustomed to human emotionalism over the years."

It was a mark of McCoy's excitement that he didn't even respond to the bait. He was too busy at his computer, punching in orders. As much as he distrusted technology, he had to admit that there were moments when he was desperately thankful for the speed and accuracy of a computer's processing power.

Finally, he nodded. "That should do it. We'll have to give things about a half hour, and hopefully the computer will have worked up antibodies for this virus of ours."

Spock was sitting very still, though.

McCoy looked to him sharply. "Spock?" he snapped.

"Doctor," Spock managed, swallowing hard and nearly grimacing. "I believe that the virus is mutating."

McCoy shot to his feet. "Hell," he breathed. If that thing managed to mutate so that his antibodies couldn't affect it, Spock was going to be defenseless. "We can't wait half an hour."

"Doctor, without the antibodies—"

"I'll get them, Spock," McCoy stated, meaning it more than he'd meant most things in his life. "I'll get 'em in time, but we have to drop the temperature now."

Spock could manage a tight nod, but little else. "I would suggest," he gasped, his voice and breathing ragged, "that you put on an environmental suit."

McCoy nodded and hurried to the EV locker that he'd noticed tucked into a corner of sickbay. Snagging a suit, he ran back to the Vulcan, not wanting to leave his side.

The suit itself was a little too big, but would do in a pinch. He kept his helmet and gloves off for the time being, and slid an arm under Spock's. Hefting the man as best he could (and marveling that such a slightly built being could be so all-fired heavy), he pulled Spock to his feet. "Come on," he muttered, "stay awake at least until you can modify the environmental controls."

Spock shot him an unreadable look. "Doctor McCoy," he stated, "should we survive this, I shall take it upon myself to give you a refresher course on the operations of this ship."

Voice strained under his burden, McCoy managed, "Much obliged."

"It is, of course, for the good of this ship, as your current ineptitude would most assuredly get us all killed."

"You keep talking like that, and I'm going to drop you where you stand."

"That would be a more effective threat, Doctor, if it did not seem so probable already. Perhaps I will add an exercise regimen to your refresher courses."

Furious, McCoy snapped, "And perhaps I'll add a diet to yours."

"That, Doctor, would be most illogical, as I am at the optimum weight for a Vulcan of my age and height."

"It was—never mind. Just put one foot in front of the other and I'll be happy."

"Really, Doctor?"

"No. Shut up."

So, they made their way to the turbolift inch by inch, counting in steps. When, at last, they moved into the lift, McCoy found them both practically collapsing against the wall as he grasped for a handle. Apparently, Spock had the same idea, because both their hands closed over it at the same time.

Spock looked at him, cocked an eyebrow, and said, "Environmental."

The lift began to move, but neither of them had enough energy to move their hands. McCoy thought it was maddening, this almost holding hands. He glanced up, only to find their gazes brushing, then locking. Spock looked almost puzzled, and then, purposefully blank.

McCoy's stomach leaped up and started dancing madly in abject terror. 'He knows,' McCoy thought, 'oh, my sweet Jesus, he knows. The man's a touch-telepath! How couldn't he? Oh, Lord, just let the lift swallow me right now.'

McCoy attempted to scowl. He attempted to glare. Hell, he attempted to come up with any words, no matter how pathetic or randomly chosen, to fill this void and break the moment.

Instead, feeling like a prize idiot, all he could manage was to look down. Unfortunately, his eyes chose to stare at the Vulcan's mouth, which, if anything, worsened the situation.

He looked back up, and Spock was still blank, studying the doctor carefully.

McCoy opened his mouth and took a shuddering breath, then, finding himself dry as the dust, he unconsciously licked his lips.

And Spock's attention was caught by that movement. McCoy, who had thought that his eyes couldn't possibly get any bigger, wondered if they were about to fall out and go rolling across the floor.

For a second, Spock moved ever-so-slightly forward. For a second, McCoy was damn sure that the man was going to kiss him. For a second, McCoy felt that this was a fine option.

And then, the lift stopped.

They both stared at each other, the moment gone with nothing left but a goodly amount of shock and embarrassment. McCoy, groping for words, finally managed an, "Aw, hell."

Spock was a bit more articulate, if also more evasive. "It appears," he said, and McCoy thought his voice had dropped about half an octave, "that we have reached environmental."

Environmental? Environmental what? What did McCoy want with environmental? Wasn't Spock about to—

Environmental! The plague! The need to stop said virus rushed back into the turbolift, and McCoy berated himself for forgetting, and for having a damnably poor sense of timing.

Moving to support the Vulcan once more, McCoy staggered out of the turbolift, desperately glad that the door to the environmental controls was the first one on their left. By some miracle, the door slid immediately open to admit them, and McCoy had to move only one ensign before they could get at the console itself.

Immediately, Spock dropped into the chair in front of the panel of buttons and began programming. McCoy tried to keep up, but eventually went back to moving the unfortunate young woman on the floor to a more comfortable position.

And then, the computer's androgynous voice rang out, "Twenty seconds to heat purge."

McCoy turned to see Spock practically dragging himself to another computer terminal. The doctor hurried up beside him, supporting the Vulcan the rest of the way. As he watched Spock work at this keyboard, McCoy began to realize that the instructions seemed familiar.

"You're ordering the computer to replicate my antibodies and vent them," he realized.

"I am quite aware of that fact," Spock stated in tense irritation, the pain of the illness tingeing his tone ever so slightly.

"Spock, those antibodies aren't ready yet!" McCoy snapped, getting to his point.

The Vulcan glanced up at him, his face drawn and haggard. "Then, Doctor, might I suggest that you take this seat and encourage the computer to work with more dispatch. Time is of the essence. I have tied this console into the sickbay lab terminal, so even you shall be able to control it."

McCoy scowled at Spock and snapped, "Budge up, Spock. Let me at those damn controls."

Spock, however, didn't move.

"Spock?"

"I . . ." Spock managed, before pitching over the console in a coma.

"Spock!" McCoy yelped, dashing to the man's side, already knowing what he was going to encounter. The virus had mutated, making it a completely different creature than that which was currently affecting the rest of the crew.

"Specified antibodies synthesized," the computer stated. Then, after a pause, "Heat venting in progress."

McCoy frantically drew a sample of blood from Spock, dashing through the door. He had to get to the sickbay and come up with antibodies for this new virus, too, or the irritating, attracting Vulcan was most certainly going to die. He wished he could remain with Spock while he did it, but tied into his computer or no, that console simply didn't have the equipment he would need for this procedure.

So, McCoy dashed into the turbolift once more, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet for the entire ride. When the lift reached his deck at last, McCoy dashed out, dodging unconscious crewmen and shivering as he moved to his blessedly familiar doors. They were far less inviting, though, now that the temperature was noticeably dropping. He'd have to pick up his helmet and gloves from sickbay while he was at it.

Once he reached the lab, McCoy was a blur of busy energy, dashing from console to console, inputting Spock's virus, ordering the computer to work up antibodies for that, and then comparing and contrasting the two strains with his own eyes. Yes, there were differences, he noted, but hopefully none so great that they couldn't be overcome in time. It had to be the factor of the blood, he thought. Vulcanoid copper-based blood was definitely the major factor that would affect this virus. At least, McCoy hoped that it was the case. If the differences were in Vulcan's highly advanced nerve cells, then he was going to get completely lost. Alien physiology had never been his strong point.

It was a terrible wait, even though McCoy busied himself pulling on his gloves and helmet to protect his freezing face and fingers. He pitied all the pour souls he'd exposed to this sort of cold, even if it was to save their lives.

Especially Spock, with his desert-dweller body temperature. The hypothermia would get to him fastest . . .

"Dammit," he growled, staring at the humming computer. "Work!"

By then, he could feel the cold even through the suit, and his Petri dishes were solidifying with delicate laces of ice.

"God almighty," McCoy breathed, his voice echoing hollowly in the confines of the helmet, "work, please."

He should have known that it did no good pleading with an inanimate piece of equipment. The computer hummed, but did not respond.

So, he took to pacing. Back and forth, staring hard at each and every new piece of equipment, trying to memorize its uses and functions. Anything to keep him busy.

Beep went his lab console, and McCoy tore to the machine, staring at the results. Without hesitation, he jammed a hypospray capsule into the appointed slot and heard it fill. Then, he typed in the order to begin the distribution of the human antibody through the ventilation system. Thankfully, Spock had made that task extremely easy, and it only required a final confirmation from McCoy to initiate.

From there it was a mad dash back to environmental, where Spock still lay across the computer terminal. Trying to focus beyond the fear, McCoy laid him out on the floor, the man's ashen pallor worrying him. McCoy pressed the hypospray to Spock's neck, pumping the antibodies directly into his bloodstream, and then pressing his fingers to the spot, searching for a pulse, only to realize that he couldn't feel it through the gloves.

Cursing the gloves and his haste, which made him forget his tricorder, McCoy jerked the offending piece of EV suit off his hand, gasping as the extreme cold hit him hard. He groped at Spock's chilled skin and found his heart to be beating in a slow, thready rhythm.

The Vulcan was in shock and had at least a moderate case of hypothermia to go along with it. Neither of those eventualities was good, and together they were potentially deadly. Spock had to get warm, and he had to do it fast.

McCoy knew what he had to do. The temperature must be brought up, before it did more damage than good. McCoy pulled himself to his feet and moved purposefully to the computer console.

The environmental controls weren't nearly as foreign as the navigational station, but they were still bad enough. McCoy ripped off his helmet and barked, "Computer, how in hell do I restore the temperature?"

"That operation must be performed through environmental controls."

"I'm at the damn controls! What do I do now?"

Thank God for helpful software, McCoy thought, as the computer, after some angry coaxing, began to lead him through the task step by step. He painstakingly sought out the correct buttons and toggles, having to scan the console for each new and unfamiliar mechanism. It had taken Spock about thirty seconds to input all of this. McCoy had already passed five minutes hunting and pecking at the console.

And then, triumphantly, he punched in the command to bring the temperature back up.

Nothing happened.

McCoy felt his stomach drop and his mind work frantically. What had he missed? He'd done everything the computer had ordered him to do. He ran his hands over the console desperately, shocked at how blue the ends of his fingers had become.

"Temperature restoration in progress," the computer suddenly enunciated. "Please stand by."

McCoy let out a frantic whoop of joy and surged to his feet.

Then, he glanced down at Spock.

Those five minutes of work hadn't done him any good. His skin was a pale sea-foam green, and his lips were barely purple.

McCoy's next action was instinctual. He skinned out of the EV suit, shaking with the cold now that he was fully exposed, and fell to his knees next to the unconscious Vulcan, grasping him and pulling him close. It was best, he reminded himself. Transfer of body heat was the fastest way to bring someone's temperature back up.

He was hit, suddenly, by how tired he was. The cold wasn't nearly as bad when he closed his eyes, he thought blearily. Medical thoughts of hypothermia seemed to flit in and out of his mind, none tangible enough to lay hold of and focus on.

Just a short nap, then. He needed to lie down to keep Spock close, anyway . . .

"Bones? Bones!"

McCoy's eyes opened blearily, only to realize that he was lying on the ground, wrapped securely around the First Officer, with the captain standing over them both.

"It was the hypothermia!" he blurted.

Kirk nodded, discreetly not mentioning their rather precarious position. Spock, however, stirred and did so for him. "Doctor, would you mind getting up? I find that you have disrupted circulation to one of my legs."

Embarrassed as all hell, McCoy pulled himself to his feet.

"Bones," Kirk said in a cross tone, "the strangest thing happened. One minute, I'm feeling a little under the weather, and the next I'm waking up on the floor of the bridge. Any explanations?"

"A plague," McCoy said. At the captain's shocked look, he filled in all the details, with frequent corrections and interjections from the now fully-recovered Spock, who was back to irritating McCoy with a vengeance. Both of them, however, left out certain aspects of the day, most notably their near-kiss on the turbolift. Apparently, even Vulcan honestly only went so far.

At last, Kirk nodded slowly, satisfied with the explanation, if still a bit mystified that so much had happened so quickly, and even a bit disappointed that he had missed out on the action. However, he seemed to shake that off, and slowly a grin spread across his face. Apparently, Jim Kirk found something about this damnable situation very funny. "Seems that you had a busy first day," he said.

"Jim, if I didn't think that your understatement was deliberate, I'd smack you upside the head." Spock started, and McCoy added, grinning devilishly, "Superior officer be damned."

Kirk threw back his head and laughed at the image that conjured up. "Welcome to the Enterprise, Doctor McCoy."

He managed a wan smile. "Thanks, Jim."

Kirk shook his head. "An interstellar plague on your first day . . . get some rest, Bones. It looks like you and Spock were the only ones who didn't get it the first time around."

And Kirk, who seemed to shake off the horrors of the day like a duck with water, moved out of the environmental control room. The young lady who had been in there with them seemed to have already woken and left.

Which just left him and Spock.

"Listen—" McCoy started, but was quickly cut off.

"Doctor," Spock said, "the next time you attempt to sleep with me, I would prefer to be conscious."

And, with perfect serenity, Spock turned and walked out of the room.

It was going to be a damn interesting five years.

The end


End file.
